


greater, lesser, middling

by silverfoxflower



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, F/M, Mild Blood, Mild Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26748481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxflower/pseuds/silverfoxflower
Summary: Geralt the Mage-killer, they call him. It is certainly no improvement to his reputation, but the common people see this as little more than a quibble among freaks. The Brotherhood is not nearly so forgiving. Though Stregabor was never popular, they do not wish to normalize the assassination of mages. They collect a bounty for his head.“Five hundred orens,” Renfri says with a low whistle, the poster she stole depicting a rather unflattering drawing of Geralt, complete with fanged teeth. “I may turn you in myself.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Renfri | Shrike
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	greater, lesser, middling

This is what happens when Geralt makes a choice.

It is easy to attain another audience with Stregabor. He is, after all, so confident that Geralt will eventually see the logic of argument, confident that even a Witcher would not choose the side of a monster over that of a highly-respected mage.

He is wrong. 

Geralt waits as he postures, encourages his ranting with non-committal sounds, and then, in a moment of inattention, cripples Stregabor with a blow to his back. Then, as the mage is howling in his own blood, the illusions he cast melting around him, Geralt opens the door for Renfri.

“You don’t need to stay for this,” Renfri says. The smile she flashes him is sharp. Hungry. 

It’s a boon she grants him, Geralt takes it with a nod of his head, brushing past her as Stregabor gasps out curses, his magic fizzling out as soon as they’re cast in Renfri’s aura. 

Downstairs, Renfri’s men are waiting, keeping the bustling market a wary distance from the entrance of the tower. Nohorn eyes Geralt up and down as he closes the door behind him, the others shuffling uncomfortably at his presence. 

“Maybe we misjudged you, Witcher,” Nohorn mutters finally, as the sound of Stegebor’s screams fill the air. Geralt grunts in reply. The townspeople shoot each other nervous looks and keep their heads down. 

\--

Renfri does not return until the day is nearly done, scattering her men with a tired smile and a wave of her hand. No one remarks on the gore she wears. 

“Did you find revenge to be what you imagined?” Geralt asks, tired. 

“Though I did all I had imagined and more, I find this has brought little closure,” she admits as she wipes her blade with a rag. “I’m still angry. Still in pain. I can admit it was enjoyable though.” 

“He said you killed for pleasure,” Geralt says.

“This time I did. Perhaps I am the monster he made me out to be,” Renfri slides a look to Geralt. “Having regrets?” 

Geralt hums, his expression unchanging. 

Her fingers on his shoulder are feather-light. She dances around him as graceful as a song, and pulls him into a kiss which tastes of blood and teeth. 

\--

Marika catches up to Geralt as he’s leaving town. 

“You killed the mage,” she says with a pout, then, “You said you’d take me with you.” 

“I did not,” Geralt says, and Renfri laughs. 

“You’re her, aren’t you?” Marika turns to Renfri, “The monster Princess? The handmaiden of Lilit?” 

Renfri’s men scowl but she bobs an amused, sarcastic curtsy. “It is I.”

“If Geralt won’t make me a Witcher, will you let me be your bandit?” Marika asks slyly, “I can be ever so useful. Just last morning, I killed a rat at breakfast with a fork-”

“We have no need for brats,” Bado grumbles.

Renfri smiled. “Well, I wasn’t much older than her when I got my start,” she glances over at Geralt. “And see how I turned out.” 

Geralt hums disapprovingly, but makes no move to stop Renfri as she folds Marika in her cloak. 

\--

Geralt the Mage-killer, they call him. It is certainly no improvement to his reputation, but the common people see this as little more than a quibble among freaks. The Brotherhood is not nearly so forgiving. Though Stregabor was never popular, they do not wish to normalize the assassination of mages. They collect a bounty for his head.

“Five hundred orens,” Renfri says with a low whistle, the poster she stole depicting a rather unflattering drawing of Geralt, complete with fanged teeth. “I may turn you in myself.” 

Geralt scowls and she laughs, clapping him on the arm.

“Don’t be so dour,” she says, “My men and I will defend you as our own, as long as you travel with us.” 

He does so out of necessity, Geralt tells himself. But even as they cross Redania’s borders he remains in their company. He learns the names of Renfri’s men - Nohorn her second, who is as loyal as he his stupid, Horce the drunkard, who delights in teaching Marika swears in multiple languages, Zavig the silent, who had his tongue cut by the Cidarian army for speaking against an order, Bado the impulsive, who attacks before he thinks, and Vothoy the thief, who was Renfri’s first follower. They warm to Geralt slowly, enfold him in their comradery, until Witcher becomes a fond nickname rather than a bristling slur. 

Marika, for her part, takes to the life with minimal complaint. These days, she follows Renfri like a puppy, loudly professing her dream of becoming a deadly bandit queen. She speaks little of her family, and Geralt wonders if they are even looking for her. 

Their lifestyle is not for him to approve of. 

Renfri insists on taking him to an ambush, and he agrees on the condition that no innocent lives would be forfeit. 

Still, it did not hold right with him to await in the bushes like a highwayman, waiting for a fancy carriage to stop at the tree they had fallen across the path. Marika, huddled with him, chatters quietly of her excitement, though she is annoyed that she isn’t allowed more than a dagger, and was ordered to remain in the back. 

The action, when it happens, finishes in a flurry. The minute the carriage wheels squeal to a halt, Bado leaps out to cut the horses free, Zavig and Vothoy holding the coachmen at arrowpoint. Nohorn barks orders as Horce leaps onto the back, digging into the luggage strapped on top. 

It is Renfri who throws open the carriage doors, revealing a noble couple and their teenaged son, cowering from her sight. 

“Ah, the Baron and Lady La Valette, it is an honor,” she sweeps into a mocking bow. 

“What is the meaning of this?” the Baron sputters, his wife clutching at his shoulder. 

Renfri turns to Geralt. “Last autumn, Meliete blessed their lands with a bumper crop. Naturally, the Baron raised his tax on the peasants. It was his right.” 

Geralt steps from the bushes, frowning. 

“This year, however, Meliete was not so kind,” Renfri shakes her head. “The wheat withered on the stalk. The rains did not come. ”

“You lowly bitch,” the Lady sniffs, “Just take our money and be done-” 

Renfri’s hand snakes out and grabs the Lady’s jeweled necklace, twisting it and dragging her out of the carriage, choking. “Do you think,” Renfri continues conversationally, as the Baron and his son shout in the background, kept back by Bado’s blades. “That the Baron deigned to lower his taxes? Though the people begged? Though they starved? Though they mixed their bread with sawdust and slaughtered their horses for food?” 

“Renfri …” Geralt says, his voice a low warning. 

“Unhand my mother!” the boy shouts, shouldering past Bado and thrusting a dagger at Renfri’s back. Geralt moves without thinking, shoving Renfri aside as he drives his blade into the boy’s chest. 

Geralt watches with horror as the boy dies, his eyes wide with surprise, his blood dripping down the handle of the steel blade and slicking Geralt’s fingers. 

The Lady wails and Renfri backhands her, the necklace snapping and sending jewels skittering across the dirt road. 

Geralt turns his silver blade on Renfri, his nostrils flaring. 

Renfri grins, waving off her men as they make for their weapons, looking uncomfortably between them both. 

“Geralt, don’t!” Marika cries, and he doesn’t know if she pleas for his sake or Renfri’s. 

“All choices have consequences,” Renfri says, her voice low as she draws her blade. “Accept yours, or not, but don’t make me your whipping girl.” 

They’ve sparred together, and Geralt has seen her fight, but nothing prepares him for the wildness of her attacks. Her style is untrained, suited more to a street thief than a Princess. What she lacks in finesse she makes up for in speed, her reactions instantaneous and devastating, each thrust going in for the kill. She has Geralt on the defensive from the outset, driving him back, and back, her mouth widened into a feral grimace. 

The empty road fills with the singing of their swords. Geralt feints, catching Renfri’s overreach and slicing her shallowly under the arm. She grimaces but does not drop her sword, ducking his next swing and aiming a stab towards his side which he barely manages to parry. Distantly, Geralt is aware of the coachmen fleeing and the Baron scrabbling to join them, leaving his unconscious wife in the road. 

It’s a lucky strike that gets Geralt the advantage, knocking the sword from Renfri’s hand as she lunges for his chest. He holds the point of his sword at her throat, both of them panting from exertion. 

Renfri smiles with blood on her teeth. She moves forward so that the blade presses against the thin skin of her throat, makes an edge of red well against the silver.

“Choose, Witcher.” 

\--

He fucks her in the forest, teeth at her throat, licking the blood from the nick he’d made. She claws at his shoulders, her thighs clamped tight around his hips. Her moans are hoarse and she takes her pleasure as wildly and greedily as any creature, her nails drawing blood as she comes. 

\--

“You look worse for wear,” Horce laughs when they stumble back to camp. “Do we need to pull out the bandages again?” Renfri accepts the ribbing with jibes of her own as she grabs the wineskin from him, drinking deeply.

Geralt walks to sit next to Marika.

“Look,” she says, holding up an aquamarine the size of Geralt’s pinky nail. It glitters harshly in the firelight. “This is worth more than my father makes in a year.” She opens her palm and there are ten more. 

“What now, Princess?” Geralt asks quietly, looking across the fire at Renfri’s laughing face, the mussed curls that bob around her chin. The cut on her neck is bleeding again, blood welling like ruby droplets and staining the collar of her shirt. 

Renfri turns to him, her eyes alight. “Now,” she says with a wolfish smile. “The world is ours to take.”

**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr](https://greyduckgreygoose.tumblr.com/tagged/myfic)


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